M. Segmuller had already turned to Lecoq and the governor to request them to withdraw, when the prisoner motioned him not to do so.
“It is not necessary,” said May, “I am, on the contrary, very well pleased to speak before these gentlemen.”
“Speak, then.”
May did not wait for the injunction to be repeated. Throwing his chest forward, and his head back as had been his wont throughout his examinations, whenever he wished to make an oratorical display, he began as follows: “It shall be for you to say, gentlemen, whether I’m an honest man or not. The profession matters little. One may, perhaps, act as the clown of a traveling show, and yet be an honest man—a man of honor.”
“Oh, spare us your reflections!”
“Very well, sir, that suits me exactly. To be brief, then here is a little paper which was thrown into my cell a few minutes ago. There are some numbers on it which may mean something; but I have examined them, and they are quite Greek to me.”
He paused, and then handing Lecoq’s missive to the magistrate, quietly added: “It was rolled up in a bit of bread.”
This declaration was so unexpected, that it struck all the officials dumb with surprise, but the prisoner, without seeming to notice the effect he had produced, placidly continued: “I suppose the person who threw it, made a mistake in the window. I know very well that it’s a mean piece of business to denounce a companion in prison. It’s a cowardly act and one may get into trouble by doing so; still, a fellow must be prudent when he’s charged with murder as I am, and with something very unpleasant, perhaps, in store for him.”
A terribly significant gesture of severing the head from the body left no doubt whatever as to what May meant by the “something very unpleasant.”
“And yet I am innocent,” continued May, in a sorrowful, reproachful tone.